


Forsaken

by themapples



Category: Game of Thrones (Video Game 2014)
Genre: F/M, Forced Incest, Fuck Or Die, One-Sided Attraction, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 13:10:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13904685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themapples/pseuds/themapples
Summary: Ramsay Bolton orchestrates a reunion between Asher and Mira that leaves one bloody and both broken.





	Forsaken

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place within the same AU as my last story, Lament of the Secondborn, but this story can be understood without having read the other one.

\--- Asher --- 

“Asher Forrester, second son, but third to become lord of the house. Or was it fourth? A long time coming. Your father, then Rodrik, and brave Ethan, we can’t forget little Ryon, then Rodrik back from the dead... Lordship didn’t end well for them, did it? Let’s see how the role takes to you.”

“Ramsay Snow, the Bastard,” the Forrester dared to spit out the name through grit teeth while restrained by two Bolton men. In truth, it was a mockery of force, a mere declaration of power over a man near crippled only two weeks ago. Asher stood on two feet, and his body, formerly weeping with blood, was on the mend. But he was so very tired, tired of the bloody war and tired of bloody Northborn bastards. Though his muscles groaned sore and weak under his bruised flesh, he was still able to keep his eyes up and defiant. The amount of energy exerted was worth it.

Ramsay exhibited absolute control of each measured step towards the current lord of Ironrath. He leaned unbearably close to Asher’s grimacing face, blankly inspecting and analyzing. A streak of red, stinging like fire, and the bastard sheathed an unseen blade. Asher growled out into the otherwise vacant great hall. Blood trailed down his cheek.

“Ramsay _Bolton_. A lord, _your_ lord.” His words came out thin like the keen of a vibrating wire pulled taut. He stared unrelentingly at his captive, daring him to provoke again the thirsty dagger hidden away in his clothes. “I’ve heard interesting things about you, Forrester.” Ramsay took a step back and admired the disheveled young man in his pitiful, vengeful entirety. “This silly war between your insignificant house and that boor Whitehill, all this bickering over childish escapades of your limp cock.” Asher choked. “It’s just what they say, you know. I was never one for gossip, but it’s certainly a story, isn’t it?” He spoke so casually, his face unnervingly light and utterly false.

“House Forrester _will destroy_ the Whitehills,” Asher muttered low and clear. Ramsay’s tight mouth curled up into a smile, his eyes tinted with mania. The Forrester had traveled Essos for four years and run with all manner of killers and thieves, but he had never faced such an insanity before.

“I honestly don’t give a damn about your petty rivalry as long as the ironwood ends up in my hands.” Little teeth peeked through his disturbed smile. “I should have let your house of nothing burn under Whitehill feet, but I am indeed a slave to entertainment.” That blade reappeared and Ramsay held the flat of it against Asher’s untarnished cheek. The blond narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow, but he still tilted his head away.

“I’d like to see what the fuss is all about, this pecker that had so frightened Ludd.” He glanced downward at Asher. “A demonstration, if you will.” Ramsay stepped back and signalled one of the guards standing by a side entrance. The soldier knocked on the door, and another guard entered the hall with a blindfolded young woman in tow, hands tied in front of her and struggling all the way.

Asher’s heart roared in his ears and his throat strained to swallow. A boulder dropped in his gut. No. That fucking bastard. Gods be damned, no. He wanted to call to her, warn her, beg, anything, but his mouth was so dry, as if raked with sand. The two men holding him back actually fought to keep him under control.

“This one was just delivered fresh from King’s Landing,” Ramsay spoke nonchalantly as he took the girl’s upper arm and led her closer. She cried out at the crushing grip he had on her and stumbled over. The grungy cloth wrapped around her eyes stood out glaringly against her long, dark hair. She shivered slightly, still in worn and dirtied court attire meant for warmer climes. “Perhaps you know her.”

Asher exhaled slow and deep and exerted himself just trying to stand on loose legs. It couldn’t be her. It wasn’t. _Please_.

“Tell us who you are, my dear.” Ramsay’s voice rolled smooth and disgustingly sweet. The girl hesitated, and his hand squeezed tighter.

“Forrester,” she blurted. The single word tumbled out, but it was enough. Asher was struck by pride at his family name spoken by a voice he hadn't heard in years, but a sticky, freezing sense of dread crept up his spine and soon replaced the previous, tentative feeling. He would trade a hundred more winters exiled to the biting salt of Essos for her to be replaced with any other poor young woman of raven locks and pale skin.

“ _Mira_ Forrester,” Ramsay corrected as his smile threatened to crack his face. “Do you know who’s standing before you right now?” He spoke as if instructing a child.

“N-no,” she uttered, “I can’t see anything.”

The Bastard of Bolton’s quickly frenzied gaze focused on Asher’s pleading eyes. “This is the man,” he started so slowly, savoring each syllable with nauseating relish, “who is going to fuck you.”

_“What?!”_ Mira choked out while clearly grimacing at the unyielding grip that reddened her arm. She jerked back from Ramsay, but he held fast and paid her no mind.

Color drained from Asher’s face, and the cool sheen of sweat at his brow contested the nervous burning of his skin. That fucking _bastard_.

“No,” he whispered, barely audible enough for anyone to hear. Those strange little teeth gleamed in Ramsay’s mouth.

“No? _No?_ ” the Bolton prodded as lunacy tainted his amusement. His pause gave Asher more panic than any blatant maiming he could have painted with his dagger. “Just as well, I have been thinking of taking on a wife. I’d bet she is still a pure, unblemished, little virgin.” The words were sludge and slime in Asher’s ears as the bastard’s eyes kept boring right into his head.

He caught a brief, unstable high as he imagined jamming his fist down Ramsay’s throat and pulling out his tongue. Or wiping blood splatter from his face after cleaving his head in two. But it would never be enough. He so wanted to fantasize and lie and believe, but Ramsay had his sister blindfolded and restrained, and he wanted him to _rape her_.

And there was no bloody denying that he would be forcing his weak, miserable self upon her, a sister he had not seen in four long years, if he brought himself to do it, to succumb to the whims of a Gods damned lunatic. And Ramsay wasn't explicit, but he needn't be to threaten that much, much worse would befall Mira if the act was left in _his_ hands instead.

Ramsay was a sadist, and Asher, by sake of being the present glorious lord of Ironrath, must suffer his unforgiving wrath. But there was nothing he could experience that would even compare to what his sister would endure, bound and blind, defiled by a stranger.

That was the vile beauty of this whole thing, wasn't it? If he refused, Mira would be wholly subject to whatever madness formed in Ramsay’s black mind. The Bolton was an unknown, illogical, irascible. Chaos. Simply evil. Mira could become one more girl, lost in the woods, sprinting on blistered feet, then crippled, and left to the dogs. Or even worse, married to the monster.

But if Asher surrendered to Ramsay, he would have to live whatever meaningless ruins of his life a blacker monster than the bastard himself. A raper, cannibal of his own blood.

And if he did choose so, and Mira lied in a ripped dress on the floor, would Ramsay’s lust for cruelty be sated? Would it be enough?

Asher’s eyes honed in on the blade now scraping against Mira’s neck as Ramsay pulled her head to the side. She protested against the strain of his grip on her hair. He held his face flush against her, the knife edge drifting up and down almost lazily.

“He begged me, Mira,” Ramsay said softly, “pleaded with me to let him _ruin_ you.” 

The bastard spoke into her neck, and Asher bit the inside of his cheek so roughly he tasted blood.

The blade slid down, sneaked under the collar of her dress, and carefully split the fabric, unraveled each thread, until the material hanged loose, her left shoulder bared. Ramsay watched Asher’s face intently as the knife slipped under the other shoulder of Mira’s dress and cut through the fine teal silk. He wrenched the poor, ripped remains off of her, and when he met resistance in the cloth, the blade ran through again and did its work.

Ramsay picked and pulled and tore away at her like a carrion bird savoring each snap at a rotten, old corpse. Mira struggled and cried as little by little she was exposed until she stood hunched over, desperately and pitifully trying to cover herself with hands still bound together. But her dress lied in strips on the floor, and she was utterly bare. Mira groaned in total exasperation and humiliation. Tears stained her blindfold and wet her cheeks. Her unkempt hair settled about her shoulders.

“Now, now,” Ramsay cooed. He trailed his hand down the side of her breast, but Mira thrashed, and her elbow clipped him. She cried out earnestly, high and shrill, when he cut a line into the side of her face. He compared the streak of red, now starting to weep blood, to the similar one on Asher’s cheek. “Fitting,” he smirked.

Asher’s chest heaved as he near panted. He cursed himself. He was filth, a failure to his house and to his innocent sister. His fists turned his knuckles white, but he held no weapons. His teeth ground against each other, but his tongue was leaden. If he lashed out, the numerous armed men would strike him down. If he spoke, only pleas and weakness would spew forth. Mira had yet to realize it was her brother who had so failed her at this moment. It was her brother, with wounds still to be healed and senses still bitterly dull, who was so worthless at protecting her from this ironborn monster. He prayed to the Old Gods that his silence somehow would preserve for her some semblance of dignity. He was an utter fool.

“Please,” her meek voice was soaked in misery, “please, Lord Ramsay. Don’t do this!”

“Oh, dear Mira,” he hissed harshly into her ear, “your lord is dead, and your house… a spark away from ashes. All of this right now that we are doing is but pleasantries. As I was telling our man of the hour here earlier, I just want a bit of fun. And then perhaps,” he locked his steely gaze with Asher, “I could reconsider Ludd’s claim to the ironwood. Diplomacy is still alive and well after all.”

Asher’s breath came out rattled and staggered, and the back of his throat soured in anticipation of what was due to come next.

“Hope is not lost for the great Forresters of Ironrath,” Ramsay’s words mocked and itched, “All I ask is a show.”

It was a lie.

Asher tasted copper and rust on his tongue. His ears deafened him with an insistent ringing because he, Lord of Ironrath, must bargain for the final strands of his house’s life in exchange for Mira, standing shaking and naked before him.

He was a lord now, the pillar of House Forrester. But Ironrath towers lied felled around the castle, remnants of the siege. The great gate was splinters and firewood. Whitehill men roamed the persistent ironwood halls. Asher had sailed from Meereen of Essos, a slaver city now ruled by its former chattel, with a ship full of pit fighters starved for war. He brought his little army, quaint in size but awesome in ability, to the North, a land of biting winds and giant trees. And by the Old Gods, he tried to salvage his house, he tried to save his family. His bannermen and smallfolk shed Whitehill blood as well as their own rallying for their lord. 

His mother was dead, impaled on a greatsword. Gryff, that fucker, was pleasantly skewered by Asher’s own blade.

But Ludd Whitehill still lived and breathed, all on borrowed time and flammable air.

And Asher Forrester… He was a man broken. But Ramsay Bolton wanted, no, demanded more. He needed the Forrester name in the dirt, sullied by shit and piss.

Ramsay offered a second wind for House Forrester, and Mira was the lamb marked for the slaughter, a sacrifice to an unjust god.

Ethan Forrester and Arthur Glenmore, victims of Ramsay’s thirsty dagger. There was no doubt that he would savor destroying Mira as well.

Unless Asher tore her asunder himself. He looked over at her then.

She had a tinge of the sun and some pink on her, and her tresses black as ever. But she was bare and her legs were long and her lips were swollen from worry. And thank the Gods that had so absolutely forsaken them that her long hair hid away the peaks of her breasts or the curve of her waist. Her hands were still small, and her thin wrists remained bound together.

She was a woman, high on eighteen if he remembered correctly. He could kneel before a weirwood tree and say with steady words that he’d never entertained the thought of her soft skin and pink lips. He could stand trial in a court of the Old Gods and affirm that he’d never lost sleep contemplating how her hair would splay under her head as she rested.

The Gods would see right through his lies, but he would say them anyway. 

Wasn’t it just luck that after so many years spent across the sea longing to see her it was Ramsay who would reunite them? Perhaps the Old Gods were crueler than the man smirking before him. Or perhaps this was punishment for all those nights thinking the wrong things about the girl sleeping in the room next door.

Ramsay’s eyes gleamed, and he licked his teeth, “So what do you say, brother?”

Any word or blink or breath from Asher not to Ramsay’s liking and Mira would be dead, or so he told himself. Asher gazed mournfully at his trembling sister for another pitiful moment, then he settled his eyes on the stained ironwood floor under her feet. He nodded once, just a tilt of the head, and it felt like he damned his whole family to the pyre.

When Ramsay’s smile split his face and his eyes shined so hideously, Asher pondered how long he would have lasted against four armed Bolton men and a Bolton bastard. With a body marked with wounds and littered with lacerations, he could take down at least one and maim a second if the heavens ruled in favor of him. But they had not been so merciful as of late.

When Ramsay nodded at his two men to release him, Asher thought of Ryon. He was next to be lord and the last in line. A boy shouldn't have to be more than just a boy. The two guards backed away and left Lord Forrester to hold himself up under the weight of what he was about to do.

When the bastard with the garish lips and sinister teeth brought his dagger down and freed Mira’s wrists, Asher looked upon her red and roughened skin with sorrow as she held herself, grasping at whatever and wherever that could preserve her dignity. His heart was shattering.

And when Ramsay advised sweetly into Mira’s cheek to keep her blindfold on before he stepped away and sliced across her back to callously prompt her forward, Asher caught her and kept his hands so precariously at her elbows and his eyes so carefully on her face.

Then, as she slowly ran her wandering, searching fingers up his chest, learning all that she could until they stopped at his face, his breath quickened as he spied her biting her bottom lip.

The crack of her slap echoed in the great hall, and pain exploded across his cheek like fire. The Bolton soldiers howled with laughter, but Ramsay was the most boisterous of them all.

“She has fight in her yet!” he crowed with glee.

Asher gripped Mira’s upper arms sharply to get her to still, but she struggled against him just the same, thrashing and beating at him.

The Bolton bannermen watched. Ramsay watched. The Gods watched. Mira remained blind, and Asher was so thankful it frightened him.

The Forrester son fantasized of when this all would be over.

He dragged her roughly to the end of the long dining table, and she stumbled over in tow. He took her in his arms and hoisted her onto the table, laying her none so gently onto its surface. She cried out in desperation and tried to scramble away, but he held tight onto her hip and positioned himself between her legs, partially trapping her under his weight. Mira squirmed under him and clawed at whatever she could reach, her struggling violent and her efforts urgent. Asher hissed harshly when her nails dug deep and added a few more noteworthy scratches on his face.

He hefted her by the hip towards him until her legs hanged half off the edge of the table. His large hand grabbed both of her wrists and pinned her arms down.

“No! _No!_ ” she called out as her chest heaved, and she panted.

Asher dared to look down at her pale thighs and soft belly, her sloping breasts and long neck. A deep red stained across her cheeks and nose. Her lips were plump and wet. Her long hair flared about under her.

His heart raced painfully in his chest, and his blood bellowed in his ears. If they endured, it would soon end.

Asher lowered his head and took one of her nipples in his mouth, his free hand palmed her other breast. She gasped and writhed as he sucked and licked her, swirling his tongue to taste her flesh. When his teeth grazed the tip and her thighs squeezed around him, he bucked. He quickly brought his hand to his mouth and sucked on his middle finger, taking care to thoroughly wet it before reaching down between them. Mira jolted and struggled with newfound intensity when he spread her folds and circled his long finger about her entrance. But when he slipped it inside of her, her breath hitched and she arched her back. Her legs pinched at his sides with such force Asher grit his teeth at the blunt pain of the pressure on his healing wounds. His finger moved in her quickly, and he felt how she clenched around him.

He bent over and kissed her bared neck, his tongue working her sweet skin. When she whined under him, he couldn't resist a light bite. He needed her just wet enough to not tear her apart, but the world was watching, and he tried to envision the end.

His hand moved into his trousers and stroked his gradually hardening cock. He tried to picture the various whores that he had bedded, girls that had crossed his path. They all had that same dark hair and fair skin, imitations of what he truly desired, whom he now had pinned and spread beneath him.

Asher peered down at Mira’s full, parted lips and heavily flushed cheeks. His eyes fell upon the blemish on her neck, a result of his earlier bite, and he could just selfishly allow himself to dream of a different scene, one in which she pulled him closer, one where she gasped his name as he touched her. He was hard enough now, hard enough to do the deed, so he picked hastily at his belt and trousers to release himself. He brought the head of his cock to her entrance. She was slick, but nowhere near enough for it to be the least bit merciful.

“No, wait!” she had begged, but her cunt was warm, and Gods be damned, he had yearned for her for fucking years. Asher thrusted swiftly into her, sunk about a bit past the head, and he cursed bitterly by her ear. A cry escaped from high in her throat, the sudden intrusion breaking her so completely. 

Mira tilted her head back and stiffened under him, her arms strained like bent metal to break free. Tears stained her blindfold, and she bit her lip with enough force to taste blood. Her breaths came rapid and ragged through her nose.

The soldiers in the room hollered. Ramsay seemed to exalt in the pained sounds that split the air. 

But Asher was deaf to it all because Mira's cries were soft and uneasy, and he breathed through grit teeth, and she was so fucking _tight_ that the clawed hand at her hip was sure to leave bruises. He drew back just a touch, and she clenched around him as she hissed.

“Forgive me, love,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse. He couldn't decide if the slight turn of her head towards him and the odd furrow of her brow stemmed from acknowledgment of his words or recognition of his voice. Before he could ruminate for long, Asher plunged insistently into her. And when Mira arched and parted her lips, he claimed her mouth with his own and muffled the scream that arose as he delved to the hilt. He released her wrists and cradled her head while his forearm prevented him from crushing her.

Her nails dug into his shoulders, considerable even through the material of his coat. She whimpered into his mouth, and his tongue brushed against hers before he sucked on her bottom lip. His thrusts were full and his tunic stuck to his back. She arched and whined and her fingers clawed, but he was hip to hip, deep inside of her slick, virgin cunt with each motion. The end was real, and he was _fucking lost_.

Bolton men watched and Ramsay watched and the Old Gods watched, yet Asher kept his eyes clenched shut, and all he sensed was Mira’s heated skin as he burrowed into the crook of her neck. Her chest heaved with each shaky breath, and her groans rang in his head. She was so soft and small and tight under him, and he moved quick and rough and unapologetic, and it was real. The end beckoned, but in this moment, this second without burnt rubble and dead brothers, all he knew was her scent of sun and salt, her shy and aching gasps, the thrum of her pulse under his lips. All was just Mira.

Asher’s right hand snaked in her hair and held fast while the other traveled lower to lift her by the hips. The angle brought him that much deeper, and he was so close. She arched up into him, her thighs powerful as the wounds at his sides bellowed and burned, but she was soft and he was fire, and he came swift and dirty and hard in her. She keened through grit teeth, and it was only when the ragged sound of his breathing rattled in his nose did he realize he was biting her.

He only allowed himself a few seconds of calm as he collapsed on top of her, greedily chasing after the receding tail of euphoria. It was done. There at the edge of his periphery, whispering and scratching, was the sense of shame steadily trickling and due to break through like a deluge. But he was suspended in between anxiety and an unforgivingly brief peace as he felt her breathe silently under him. A shift and a disturbance, and Asher raised his heavy head tentatively to see a calloused hand, Ramsay’s, tug away a blindfold.

Mira winced at the sudden light, then she cautiously opened her eyes, blinking away the brightness. Her gaze darted frantically about until they finally landed on her brother’s face hovering above her. Her eyes widened, and her expression changed to one struck by horror. Her breath came short and quick, never catching enough as a wave of panic arose in her.

Asher stared into the familiar gaze of his sister, aqua like his own, and his heart froze.

Ramsay’s voice crept like ice, “What a lovely reunion.”


End file.
